


Hills That We've Climbed

by goddessofcruelty



Series: Wine and Song [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Comeplay, Hate Sex, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Peter is Native American, Peter is a creepy stalker, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Somnophilia, Stockholm Syndrome, everyone is human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1484641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessofcruelty/pseuds/goddessofcruelty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stone Wolf, they call him, Captain.”<br/>The leader of that failed mission, now properly dressed in his new uniform, new rank designation crisp on his shoulder, was giving his report.<br/>Chris snorts. “Their names are always so fucking pretentious. <em>Stone Wolf</em>.” He says the name with derision.<br/>“Well, Mr. Stone Wolf, I'm going to be the hammer that smashes you to dust.”<br/>-<br/>Civil War Era AU. Peter Hale is the leader of the Native Americans Chris Argent has been sent to pacify.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Peter fucking with Chris' mind

Captain Chris Argent is sitting at his rickety desk, running his hands through his hair in frustration, trying very hard not to scream curses or finish off his last bottle of whiskey. The damned incompetence of the upper brass back in New York was going to be the death of his men.

Instead of weaponry and foodstuffs, they got new uniforms and designations.

_Fancy ass Easterners and their modernization. I should have never come out here. I should have refused the commission. Should have gone to West Point with Allison._

Chris tries to imagine himself trying to teach Tactics to a bunch of woolheaded teenage boys.

Shaking his head, he turns back to his stack of papers. He never knew how much of being an officer was paperwork. _I wouldn't have tried so hard._

That wasn't true though. His father had been a soldier, his grandfather had fought in the damned _Revolution_.

But the Argents didn't go to fancy schools or buy their commissions.

_No, because that wouldn't be the hard, bull-headed way to do things._

Argents work their way up from the bottom.

He can hear Gerard's voice in his head. “ _It'll toughen ya up, boy. Lord knows you need it._ ”

Chris remembered what had prompted that incident. _That little fox cub._

He reached to the fox's tail in his pocket and stroked it softly, remembering.  _Amazing how something like that can hurt after all this time._

-

A knock at the door signals bad news. Otherwise his aide would have just come in.

Fuck, Chris needed a drink.

“Oh come in you damned coward. How many did we lose?”

His secretary entered timidly and stood just inside the door. “No men lost, sir.”

Chris heard what he didn't say. “They took the horses again.”

The man's lips twitched. “And their clothes, sir.”

“And their-?” Chris shoved away from his desk and pushed out the front door of his office in time to see twenty-five men slinking back into the fort with nothing but the skin they were born in.

“Good thing we got those new uniforms in, sir.”

Chris sighed. “Yeah.” He went in and poured himself a glass of the amber liquor and downed it.

_This new leader the Indians have is too fucking bloody clever by far._

-

“Stone Wolf, they call him, Captain.”

The leader of that failed mission, now properly dressed in his new uniform, new rank designation crisp on his shoulder, was giving his report.

Chris snorts. “Their names are always so fucking pretentious. _Stone Wolf_.” He says the name with derision.

“Well, Mr. Stone Wolf, I'm going to be the hammer that smashes you to dust.”

-

He's wrong.

Time after bloody time, the bastard outwits him.

Every sortie that Chris sends out returns missing their horses. This Stone Wolf always seems to know where they are going.

Interestingly, they don't lose their clothes again.

The one time he leads a campaign himself, Chris finds nothing where their scouts had said the war party was camping.

When he returns, he finds a carved wooden wolf on his desk.

Chris throws it in the fire.

Two weeks later, there's a carved stone wolf on his windowsill.

Chris keeps this one.

It holds down his paperwork, and Chris stares at it while he wonders how to beat this son of a bitch.

-

Chris receives a packet of letters at the end of the month.

Roughly half are demands for him to pacify this country already.

_You fucking pretentious rich do-nothing bastards come out here and try to conquer an enemy that you can't find._

He rolls his eyes and files them with the stacks and stacks of others that say the same thing.

_I wonder if they just write twenty at a time and then send them out once a month._

 

There are three from Allison.

The first one is months old, its about Kate. His baby sister, divorced and dead in childbirth.

_Oh, God, Katie. Sweet little Katie, who had to be the woman of the house so very young._

Chris remembers her golden curls in pigtails, running through the plains of Missouri. She'd been equally at home in the dark, mysterious forests of Northern Michigan.

Nothing fazed Kate. _Not like me._

A soldier's daughter, Kate married a stoic, solid man along the same lines. _Someone calm to balance out her wild ways._

Chris had liked Derek for all his Native blood.

He wonders what had happened to cause her to make such a trek while pregnant, alone.

Chris sighs and covers his face a moment. He'll probably never know.

He determines to meet her child at some point.

If he ever gets back home to his daughter.

_With the way the war is going, not bloody likely._

Military dispatches come more frequently than civilian mail. Looks like the North is finally turning things around, but the country is torn apart.

He sets the letter aside.

 

Chris will weep for his sister later, after dark, when there's no risk of anyone seeing their commander break down.

“ _Soldiers don't cry, boy. It was just a dumb animal. Would have died anyways._ ”

 

The second is about Scott.

His daughter is a widow, herself and her best friend.

_Oh, Allison, I'm so sorry, sweetling. God, Scott and Jackson both._

Chris swears aloud and throws this letter atop the other without finishing it.

Children, they were just _children_.

_Cut down by this stupid ass fucking war._

He reaches for his bottle to find it almost empty.

Chris hollers for his aide.

 

“This is the last bottle, sir,” he says as he sets it down.

Chris nods. “My sister. Childbirth. My son in law. Gettysburg.” His eyes are a distant, pale blue as he stares past the soldier. “It won't be wasted.”

The man leaves silently.

Chris pours two cups full.

He lifts one. “Katie.” Chris tosses it back and then raises the other. “Scott and Jackson.” That, too is quickly imbibed, and then the bottle is secured in his foot locker.

He goes up to the fort wall, thumb rubbing along the tail in his pocket, unseeing eyes staring East.

 _Keep them safe_ , he prays. He's got two family members left now. His daughter and his nephew. And he's a world away.

-

It isn't for days until he feels the fortitude to finish his letters, though Chris is glad he does. For the final letter is cheerful and brings good news. Allison has sent the child to its father, and she and the recently widowed Mrs. Whittemore are leaving the country.

Chris takes a sigh of relief. They will be safe in Europe from this godforsaken conflict.

He folds all three letters carefully, and locks them in with his booze.

-

On his birthday, there is a crate upon his desk when he gets into his office.

His aide has no idea where it came from. He thinks it's explosives.

Chris doubts there's any reason for someone to try to explode his office. He isn't even a threat to the supposedly stupid and weaponless natives.

He grabs an iron bar and pries it open.

It's his favorite whiskey. It's a whole _case_ of his favorite whiskey.

Chris is floored. He sits down and runs a hand over the bottles on top.

He can't even begin to fathom how this was procured. And even more, how a crate this size had been smuggled past a garrison full of soldiers.

He turns to look at the crate and the little stone wolf is sitting in front of it like a damned calling card.

“You damned clever bastard.”

He takes a bottle up to the wall and pops it open, lifting it in benediction and thanks to his unseen enemy before drinking directly from it.

The back of Chris' neck prickles and he turns to see someone stepping from the treeline. Chris squints and then the ice blue eyes fly open wide as he recognizes the man.

“Holy Mother of God,” he whispers, one hand reaching to the wood railing to clench so tightly that his knuckles turn white. “Peter.”

Peter Hale is standing there, framed by the forest.

He's wearing nothing but a pair of beaded, buckskin pants and an armband. Peter's hair is long and his skin is sun darkened, but Chris would know that body anywhere.

Had known that body intimately for one blessed, beautiful week.

Peter takes a few more steps forward, and Chris admires the way he moves. Peter doesn't walk, he _saunters_ , insolence and pride radiating off every gorgeous inch of him. He's still the sexiest thing Chris has ever seen.

And the most dangerous.

-

Peter looks smug. He lifts his chin and walks forward until he's just barely in range of the ancient old rifles that Chris' men have.

Peter has always been a gambler. He's willing to be that Chris won't shoot him. Not today at least.

He tilts his head, exposing his neck slightly, remembering how much attention Chris liked to lavish on it.

“Happy Birthday, Christopher,” he says softly, but Chris hears him. Chris' cheeks flush slightly and he looks down a moment to the bottle in his hand.

“How..?” Chris begins but apparently realizes that there's no way Peter's going to answer him, so he trails off. “What do you want, Peter?”

Peter laughs, low and mocking. “Same thing I've always wanted, handsome. And this time I'm going to get it.”

He can see the way he affects Chris, the flush creeping up his cheeks, the grip he's got on the wall, the way he shifts from side to side a moment.

But Chris isn't the same boy that he seduced years ago.

He's a man grown now, with an iron will and self control of steel hammered into him by his father and the Army.

Chris lifts his chin and his eyes are cold as he narrows them down at Peter.

“That's never going to happen.”

It's not like Peter expected Chris to leap the railing and run off with him, well maybe a little part of him did, but the absolute, unequivocal rejection stings him anyways.

He doesn't change expression though, because he's not going to give Chris that edge.

Peter tilts his head and aims a winning smile up at the soldier.

“Yes, Christopher. It will. And this time, you will come to me.”

He turns his back and strolls back into the forest, as if completely at ease, not giving any sign that he's waiting to be shot in the back. Peter halts just out of sight, and goes back to his favorite pasttime, watching Chris. He crouches next to the tree where he has a bag hidden, and pulls it out, revealing a spyglass and training it on the older man through his office window.

-

Chris watches Peter walk away. For safety purposes, to make sure he's really gone. And he absolutely, 100% does not watch the muscles of Peter's back move. And he certainly is not ogling that perfect ass, remembering what it felt like to grip it tightly enough to bruise, to pull the cheeks apart as he slides himself within... No, Chris is definitely not doing any of that.

Only he is.

And now his stupid new uniform pants are too tight, and Chris presses himself against the hard wooden wall until his stirring cock gets the message.

Once he's presentable to the men, Chris leaves and heads back for his office.

He hefts the crate, and damn the thing is heavy. And Chris is not thinking about Peter's muscles again. No, he puts the crate next to his cot, like a bedside table, and sets the stone wolf on top of it.

Chris looks at it a second, then removes the foxtail from his pocket. He runs his thumb over the fur and then curls it around the wolf carving. Tears prick his eyes and he looks away.

_That route is lost, Argent. Get your shit together._

He takes his uniform jacket off, adjusting his suspenders, and then sits back at his desk, and doggedly goes through his paperwork. By the time it's done, he's not thinking about Peter or the past. He's just exhausted, and his eyes are burning from working in candlelight. But his desk is finally clear, and so is his mind.

-

It's over a fortnight before Peter's Indians conduct another raid and Chris is forced to send men off after them.

By nightfall, none of the men have come back. Chris punches the wall of his office.

If there's no word in the morning, he's going out after them.

Just after midnight, Chris is startled out of sleep by a noise. He grabs his rifle and sits up in his cot, aiming it towards the noise, which turns out to be Peter _sitting on his fucking desk_.

Chris drops the rifle and takes two steps forward, reaching out to grab a handful of Peter's long hair, craning his head backward.

“Where are my men, you son of a bitch?”

Peter smirks up at Chris. “They're safe. And as long as you give me what I want, they'll all come home.”

Chris leans closer, blue eyes snapping dangerously. “And what you want is me.”

Peter meets that gaze, pupils dilating. “Always.”

Chris tugs his head back further, just to see the bend of Peter's neck.

_This is a really, really bad idea._

He crushes his lips against Peter's cruelly, keeping that tight grip in the other's locks.

Peter arches his hips forward as Chris steps between his parted legs. He is already hard, Chris can feel him through the soft leather of the buckskin pants, and as he rubs himself against Chris, the soldier can feel himself responding.

Chris takes a deep breath after pulling his lips away from the younger man's. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers and Peter laughs softly. “They call me Stone Wolf now.”

Chris growls and bites down on Peter's neck hard, right where it meets his shoulder. “You. Are. Such. An. Arrogant. Smug. Asshole.” Each word is punctuated by a harsh bite along Peter's neck.

By the time Chris pulls away, there's a line of red marks along the tanned skin, and Peter's eyes are glazed with lust.

“Well, you wanted me,” Chris snarls, “Now you got me.”

He releases his hold on Peter's hair and shoves him down onto the desk, grabbing the waistband of Peter's pants and yanking it down. He wraps one hand around the back of Peter's neck, holding him down and with the other he lays a series of blows on the other's unprotected ass.

Peter yelps in surprise at the first one, then he manages to stifle himself, hands gripping the far edge of the desk tightly.

Chris growls in his ear. “That's for taking my horses.”

Peter shivers and presses his stiff cock against the desk. Chris moves behind him, letting go of his neck, and Peter rests his forehead against the cool wood.

Chris runs his nail along the welts he has decorated Peter with, and chuckles low at the way the other man twitches. He grips handfuls of Peter's ass and pulls it apart to look at him. He sees a glistening trail leaking from the younger man, and he slides his thumb along it, up along his tight little hole. Chris runs his thumb around the pucker, and then crooks it. It slides in easily.

“Peter,” Chris starts to say, his voice choked.

Peter's voice is muffled by the desk. “My people have a special oil. I thought you might like it.”

Chris slides first one finger and then two inside the man sprawled across his desk.

“More,” Peter mumbles as he arches into Chris' hand.

Chris slides another finger into Peter and he moans low. “ _Please_ , Christopher.”

The older man is unrelenting as he pistons his hand in and out of Peter. “Please what, _Stone Wolf_?”

The tone is mocking but Peter doesn't care. He wants Chris inside him like yesterday.

“Fuck me, Christopher. Please. Claim me as yours.” He ignores how desperate his voice sounds.

Chris doesn't hesitate. _In for a penny, in for a pound._

He slides his suspenders off his shoulders and unhooks his uniform pants. Chris leans over Peter's body and guides himself inside the Native chief.

“Fuck, _Peter_ ,” he whispers into the night air as the tight heat envelopes him.

For a minute, Chris can't move, he just lays over Peter, holding them joined together. At last he shifts his hips, and Peter's nails dig furrows into the wood varnish.

Chris thrusts a few times, shifting until he finds that sweet spot and Peter jerks beneath him, crying out his name.

Chris grabs a strip of leather from his desk and gags Peter with it. “Shh, or you'll have the whole fort down on us.”

Peter just moans in response.

Chris fucks him hard against that desk.

He takes years of frustration on Peter, pounding into him, until he feels that flush of warmth blossom on his gut.

“Touch yourself, _Stone Wolf_. Bring yourself off while I'm inside you.”

Peter groans but unhooks a hand from its death grip on the desk, and shifts back so that he can wrap a hand around his aching cock.

Chris snaps his hips forward again and Peter swears, moving his hand along his own length.

“Now,” Chris says roughly, and Peter obeys, spilling his seed onto the side of the desk.

Chris fucks him through his climax, and then shoves Peter back onto the desk, bringing his arms behind his back, pinning him in place.

He whispers Peter's real name like a benediction as the soldier finishes inside the man that he loves.

Chris lets go of Peter's hands and leans forward a moment, pressing a soft kiss on the back of Peter's neck, before gasping softly as he withdraws.

Chris reaches for the cloth at his wash station, and wipes himself clean. He tosses it at Peter as he tucks himself back in and hooks his pants back up.

“Clean up yourself and the desk. I expect my men and horses back in the morning.”

Chris turns away and lays down on his cot, with his back to Peter.

And if tears run silently down his face, that's between himself and his pillow.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning finds Captain Chris Argent drunk off his ass.

His soldiers and their horses return but he couldn't care less. Even the message that comes through with, doesn't break through his wall of self-loathing and apathy.

No more free rides. From now on, every soldier that rides against Peter's people dies.

Chris thinks that would be a blessing right about now.

Because the last thing he wants to do is face the consequences of what he's done.

He orders all the rest of the whiskey that Peter had given him to be disbursed to the captives.

Then the Captain gathers his officers together.

There is a lot of argument, and things get heated, but eventually they agree to his plan, with some slight tactical changes.

They let the men celebrate that night, even breaking out enough extra food that it might be called a feast.

The soldiers get one day of rest and then the officers go among them, explain the plan small group by small group. Because Chris still doesn't know how Peter is getting all his information.

No one is allowed to leave.

Three nights later, under cover of darkness, two-thirds of his men sneak away, riding East, back to ask for reinforcements, or to join the war. Grant will have to figure out what to do with them. They're no longer Chris Argent's concern.

He and the men who volunteered to stay make a big do of it. They are a bit louder at their patrols, and talk to comrades who have gone. They don't know if they are fooling anyone, but it makes them feel better to think that they've pulled the wool over the eyes of this great Indian commander.

When a week has past, Chris takes half of the men he's got left, and sends them out to scout, each pair in a different direction. In the meantime, he loudly declares to his aide that no one is leaving this fort until the promised reinforcements arrive.

He lives on the knife edge of not knowing anything and pretending like nothing is happening for three days. It feels like three years.

Two by two, the scouts start straggling in, and Chris checks off squares on a grid that he's drawn over their admittedly sketchy map of the area. This is _nothing_ like his academy training, and the Captain is making up every protocol as he goes along.

Gradually he gets a clearer picture of the terrain, and most tellingly, both pairs of scouts that bookended the same area did not return.

They were told to act as deserters should they be caught. Chris hopes that they can lie convincingly. Soldiers are used to being straightforward, are trained to do so.

It's an odd thing he asks of them, but they volunteered. He has no idea if they will talk, or if his plan is dead in its infancy. All he can do is act as if nothing has changed.

Chris is suddenly glad that he never had charge of commanding large amounts of troops. No wonder so many generals drank themselves to death.

When all are back, except the four he's certain are dead, Chris gathers his officers together in the ammunition shed. They've been using it because it has the thickest walls of any building insider the fort.

“Alright, gentlemen, we ride in five hours. We're leaving ten men here to make it seem like the fort is occupied. We're heading here.” He taps the blank spot on the map. “Two columns, I want four archers in front, lit arrows into their tents. Set 'em on fire and then cut down anyone who raises weapons. Spare any women and children who surrender.”

Chris looks around. “Make your peace with god tonight.”

With that, the meeting was over and they left.

Chris could not sleep. He paced restlessly for a while and eventually finding himself up on the wall again, looking out over the spot where he'd first seen the Native chief.

He wonders if Peter was watching.

-

It's doomed from the start. Either the captives talked or they weren't as secretive as they thought because it's a disaster from start to finish.

They find the village but that's the last thing that goes right. The soldiers don't even get a shot off before they're surrounded.

Everyone but the Captain is stripped and force-marched back into their fort. Chris has his hands and feet bound and he is thrown over the front of Peter's horse, basically in the chief's lap.

Peter doesn't keep his hands to himself.

The men are forced into the wooden walls as the Captain is settled on his feet outside. Peter holds onto him while the natives light the fence on fire.

Chris Argent is forced to watch as all of his men burn alive. His eyes are brimming by the time there is nothing left but ash and burned bones.

Peter doesn't say a word until the end. He pulls Chris' head back by his hair and whispers into his ear. “You belong to me now.”

-

They return to the camp, and Peter throws the still bound Chris onto his pile of furs and leaves. It has to be three hours before the chief returns. Chris spend the time reciting the name of every man under his command who has died out here in the godforsaken wilderness.

When Peter returns, he is holding one of those giant Bowie knives, and the sharp edge glints in the light of the fire he makes.

Once the chief is satisfied with the fire, he turns to the man lying in his blankets.

“Do you know why I came out West, Christopher?”

Chris doesn't answer. He's busy deciding whether Peter is going to scalp him or gut him first.

Peter taps his nose with the tip of the long blade. “Pay attention.” His tone is playful but there's a warning in the glittering darkness of his eyes.

Chris pays attention.

“My nephew told me that you had come out here to play soldier. So when the North destroyed my family, I came to find you.”

Chris furrows a brow, and parts his lips to say something but the knife taps his nose again.

“No. I'm talking now, Christopher.” Peter slides the knife between Chris' legs, forcing him to part them. The chief sinks to his knees on the furs, so that he's got one of Chris' legs on either side.

“The soldiers refused to let me in the gate. I camped just outside the forest, watching for my chance. That's when my people found me. We made a bargain. If they'd follow me, I would deliver them from the soldiers. All I asked in return..” Peter trails the knife lightly along Chris' pant leg. “..was you.”

Chris feels a chill run down his spine, but he lifts his chin and looks coldly at Peter. “Well, you won. Congratulations. Just kill me already.”

Peter blinks, surprise flitting across his face. “I'm not going to kill you, Christopher. I'm going to _own_ you.”

He lifts his knife and slides it down, tucking the tip into Chris' bootstraps and cutting the laces. “You'll go in just breech cloth until I say you've earned coverings.”

Peter is not just talking about the boots. He proceeds to methodically slice off every single thread of clothing Chris is wearing, including his smallclothes.

Everything except the boots is thrown into the fire.

Chris watches the remnants of his life as a soldier burn to ash. _Just like my men._

_-_

Peter brings him venison for supper, and watches as Chris eats it silently. He takes the bones out to toss them to the dogs, and then leaves Chris alone once more.

Chris stares into the fire a long time. He thinks about how he should have died with his men, how he should try to follow them into oblivion somehow, but he doesn't move. Chris is surprised to find that, even after losing his family, his career, and all of his men, he still wants to live.

Chris thinks about escape, but he has nowhere to go, even if he could get enough supplies to make it somewhere.

Eventually, he lies down and tries to sleep.

Chris is curled on his side, wrapped in the furs when Peter returns. He listens as the native shucks his outer layer of clothing, and closes his eyes when the younger man climbs into the furs with him.

Peter lays a hand on Chris' shoulder, and gently pulls until Chris is lying on his back. He looks at Peter, who simply nestles into Chris' side, resting his head on the soldier's chest.

Peter falls asleep almost instantly. Chris is awake for a long, long time.

-

It's been nearly a month and Chris hasn't done anything but sit in Peter's tent, eat the food the native chief brings him, and hold him while he sleeps.

Peter returns that night, and tosses a pair of buckskin pants into Chris' lap.

Chris rises and slides them on under Peter's hungry gaze. He knows little of the natives' symbology, but he can see that some of the designs are the same as Peter's. Chris assumes it's to identify who he belongs to.

Peter twines his fingers in Chris' and pulls him from the tent. The soldier blinks in the bright sunlight. He is taken to the horse corral, and he tilts his head at Peter in question. Peter grins and then makes a soft, whickering noise.

A solid black horse with clear Arabian ancestry trots up, and Chris can't help the smile that she brings. “Well, hello, princess,” he croons softly at her as she comes up to him and nuzzles into his hands.

“Sorry, Sadie girl, I don't have any-”

He finds a small apple being pressed into his hand. and Peter grins as Chris feeds it to his horse.

Peter leaves Chris alone with his horse, but there's a warrior watching him the entire time.

Still, he enjoys the afternoon, he talks to her and brushes through her mane, and then spends the last hour just watching her frolic.

Chris is much calmer of spirit when Peter comes to claim him, and for the first time Chris is brought to eat among Peter's people for their midday meal.

Chris is directed to a specific area, while Peter takes a spot at a great fire. It doesn't take long for the soldier to notice that he's among the tribe's slaves. The food is nothing but leavings, and they get none of the extras that Peter's group is enjoying.

When they are done eating, an impossibly old woman comes over and screeches something in her tongue. The others with him hasten to get up but Chris lingers, uncertain if it is meant for him or not. A strike from the solid wooden stick she's brandishing make up his mind for him, and he follows the group.

Chris spends the afternoon planting seeds, quick to pick up on the technique after he's shown how. it's peaceful work, but he finds that so much time at his desk has softened him, for his back and knees ache a bit when they're finally relieved for the night.

The captives are then directed to a nearby stream. They all disrobe quickly and dive in, Chris following after a moment's hesitation.

Once they have washed the sweat away, they clean their over clothing and lay it over rocks to dry. Then, baskets of the tribe's clothing is brought, and the slaves wash those as well.

Chris is already tired. By the time he is done, his hands and back _ache_.

They are all herded into a ring of stones and then left. The others immediately curl up and go to sleep. There's apparently no evening meal. Chris settles into a spot, crossing his legs the way that the others do and waits for Peter.

By the time morning comes, Chris has given into exhaustion and he is laying on the hard ground with his face pillowed on his arm.

-

It's seven or eight days before Peter comes for him (Chris has lost track). He can feel the younger man's eyes on him and his skin prickles despite the sun's heat.

The chief watches him work for a few minutes, and then Peter says something to the old woman who watches them, something too low for Chris to hear.

The woman shakes her head and points the stick at Chris. He makes sure he's working steadily. Peter says something to her again and she seems to relent, calling Chris over.

He has learned – on the wrong side of that switch she carries – the series of noises that make up whatever name they're calling him.

Peter tells him over dinner that they call him Silver Bear. Apparently he's known for his surly disposition.

Chris shrugs. _What does it matter what they call me?_

They go to bed, and Peter curls into his side like this past week never happened.

Chris can admit, at least to himself, that he prefers sleeping curled here in the warmth of the furs, with Peter's body pressed against him.

He doesn't know why he was sent to the other slaves, but Chris would prefer not to return there.

So, when Peter's hand slides along his abdomen, and then lower, and he feels himself respond, Chris doesn't fight it.

And when he's had enough of Peter's teasing, and he rolls over and pins the younger man to the furs beneath them, when Chris is deep inside, fucking into Peter relentlessly – if he feels the sting of guilt and self-loathing, then that's nobody's business but his.

-

One morning in late summer, Peter stalks into the tent, tangles his fingers in Chris' hair and throws the former soldier to his knees. He doesn't answer any of Chris' questions, just violently tears off the clothing that Chris has painstakingly earned, and leaves it in a heap on the floor.

Chris is once again down to breech cloth, and he has no idea why.

Peter wraps a hand around the back of his neck and herds the older man outside, out of the tent and down to the center of the village.

Chris sees a double line of men all armed with leather straps and switches. All looking at him.

“Peter...?”

His question is rewarded with a backhand, and then Chris is shoved forward, the tip of Peter's bowie knife prodding him from the back.

Another man steps in front of him, also holding a wicked looking knife.

By now Chris has the idea. He went through something similar his first year at the Academy. _Only these warriors are probably much more bloodthirsty._

So Chris Argent walks the gauntlet. He's bleeding from just about everywhere, and he's barely walking, but he _is_ walking, and at the end he is still standing.

Peter is standing there smugly and he looks around, staring every one of these men down.

The old woman walks over and speaks to Chris. Peter tells him the sounds to make back to her. She nods, seemingly satisfied, and then ties an intricately beaded bracelet around his left wrist.

The men watch this, and then they break off into smaller groups. Apparently the entertainment is over.

As they disperse, several of them clap Chris on the shoulder, or smack him on the back. With each friendly blow, he can feel his wounds more strongly, and then Chris can feel his knees wobble.

“Peter,” he says softly, “I can't stay upright too much longer.”

The chief nods and directs him towards their tent, letting Chris lead the way.

He manages to make it inside before collapsing onto the ground. The last thing Chris feels before he slides into darkness, is Peter's hands sliding gently down his back.

He wakes up to night's blackness held back by the fire, and Peter cleaning him off with a damp cloth.

Chris moves slightly and feels a familiar burn in his ass. He takes a deep breath and then lifts his head. “Peter, did you...?”

“Shh. You _belong_ to me now.”

Chris turns to look over his shoulder, and sees that it's not a damp cloth that's being dragged along his bleeding wounds. It's Peter's tongue.

Then the sounds come into focus, and now he can hear the slapping sound of Peter's hand stroking himself.

Chris moves his hands to push himself up, he _needs_ to get away from this right now.

Peter shoves him down, none too gently, and continues lapping at Chris' blood and jerking himself.

The licking stops, and then Chris feels the sting of hot fluids splashing onto his welts. He twitches as it starts to sting, but Peter holds him down and massages his seed into Chris' back.

“Peter, _please_..”

The chief is beyond listening, and Chris has no idea what's gotten into him, because Peter has never done anything like this before.

He orders Chris on his back now, tossing out a rough, woven cloth for him to lay on. The former soldier can't help the whimper that escapes, though he presses his lips tightly together.

Peter runs his thumb over those lips and shakes his head. “Oh, no, Christopher, all of you belongs to me. Your body, your pain, and all the delicious noises you make.”

Peter pushes his legs apart, arousing Chris with deft, sure touches, like the older man is a book that Peter has studied intensively.

Chris didn't even think he could get aroused while being in this much pain, but he does, and before too long, Peter is riding him hard.

The native chief has Chris curl a hand around his half-hard dick, and stroke him to fullness while Peter moves on top of Chris at his own rhythm.

Without any verbal warning, Peter stiffens and jerks in Chris' hand, shooting streams of come all over the older man's chest and face.

The chief takes a deep breath or two and then reaches forward. He spreads his fluids along Chris' skin, rubbing it into his cheeks and his neck, before sliding himself off of the older man's still hard cock.

Chris feels like he's smothered in Peter.

His entire body, inside and out has been painted with Peter's essence, and now the younger man is curling himself around Chris, cuddling up to him the same way he always did.

Peter slides his hand down Chris' chest and stomach, stopping to pinch or scratch at the welts and cuts along the way.

His hand has the soldier's blood on it when it wraps around the dick still standing at attention, and Peter slowly strokes Chris off that way.

When the soldier finally finishes, it's so hard that it _hurts_ , the muscles of his abdomen aching. Peter directs the come to splash on his stomach and then lazily rubs it in.

Chris passes out once more.

He wakes to Peter fucking him again. He can feel the squelch of fluids being pushed from his hole every time Peter thrusts within, and he briefly wonders how many times.

He decides it doesn't really matter, and waits until Peter has finished before softly asking for some food and water.

Peter feeds him, won't even let him lift the water to his mouth.

Once Chris feels stronger, he asks about going to the river to clean himself.

Peter says maybe tomorrow.

-

Things go back to normal, or as close to normal as Peter gets, once their three day 'honeymoon' is over. That's what Chris later learns it was. The old woman had married them, and he had given his consent without knowing it.

It's only when Peter sees Chris bleeding, that the fever of lust takes him over like that.

Chris does his best to avoid bleeding. (Sometimes Peter causes the bleeding himself, but it's a rare occasion.)

Mostly, he worships the ground Chris walks on, brings him gifts, and is the one begging to be fucked into the ground at night.

When word comes that the war is over and a new garrison is coming to the fort, Peter offers Chris a choice.

He can take his horse and go back to his people, or the former soldier can move further west with the tribe.

In the end, it isn't much of a choice. There's nothing for him to go back to.

Chris follows his husband into the sunset.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration: No Sugar Tonight/New Mother Nature by The Guess Who
> 
> Please let me know if there's anything I need to tag. <3
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](goddessofcruelty.tumblr.com)


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